


Midnight Confessional

by lovetincture



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24750916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Two men walk into a bar in love with other people. They need a priest, an attorney, and Jesus, in that order. Instead they've got each other and a fifth of vodka.This isn't a fucking romance.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Nigel (Charlie Countryman), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	Midnight Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> **cn: homophobic slurs**

Gabi is a sight to behold when she’s angry—the fact that she’s angry at him does very little to diminish it. 

She’d brought some papers for him to sign, papers that he resolutely crumples up and tosses into the nearest beer—doesn’t particularly matter to him that it wasn’t his. She shouts at him, jabs her finger into his chest a few times for good measure, and all Nigel can think is that he wants to bend her over the nearest table.

She leaves before he gets the chance, probably running back to her fucking faggot boyfriend, and Nigel’s lip curls as he watches her go. He’s got half a mind to go after her.

A voice to his left stops him.

“Doesn’t look like the lady likes you very much.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” Nigel growls. Then because it’s still true, will be true until one of them is dead, no matter what a fucking piece of paper says, “She’s my wife.”

“Doesn’t look like your wife likes you very much.”

Nigel slants a glance at the man beside him, his fingers tightening on the rim of his glass. He’s all suntanned skin and a too-bright American smile curled into a shit-eating grin. Nigel considers how much he’d like to rearrange the man’s face, weighs it against the bulge of a gun he can see riding above the man’s waistband and his desire not to get 86’d from his new favorite bar.

His love of the bar wins out. He throws back the last of his whiskey and slams the glass back on the table with satisfying force. “Doesn’t look like your brother likes you very much.”

He’d caught the tail end of whatever the fuck they’d been arguing about, some gobbledygook about vampires or some shit. He wasn’t paying all that much attention. You can’t throw a rock in here without hitting some drunk asshole talking some bullshit.

The man’s grin crumples in on itself before sliding off his face, down to the floor like the rest of the trash in this shithole, and Nigel smiles wide and mean.

Looks like he hit a nerve. The man turns back to his beer, drinking it out of the bottle in long pulls and staring at the peeling label curling up at the edges like he might find answers there.

Nigel settles in, gestures at the bartender and gets another whiskey double for himself. On impulse, he gets another beer for the stranger beside him too. He doesn’t know why he does it. The kid’s a punk with a smart mouth, but maybe there’s something in the defeated slump of his shoulders, the lovelorn line of his soft lips. It’s not like Nigel doesn’t have a heart.

The man accepts the beer with a startled look that shades into something more suspicious, and Nigel approves. He also focuses on his own damn drink. He might buy a guy a round on a whim, but he isn’t looking for a heart-to-heart.

The man raises the beer in a silent toast, and Nigel does the same with his tumbler. In the quiet, dim bar, shrouded from the bright light of day outside, they drink.

“’s not like that,” the man says after a while. He gestures to the door, the place where his brother had stormed off—where Gabi had stormed off. “Me an’ Sam. It’s not—it’s complicated.”

“Family’s fucking complicated,” Nigel gives him after a while.

“Amen to that.”

They fall back into silence, and Nigel appreciates it. If he has to share his hideaway with some fucking stranger, he’s glad at least that he’s not a talker.

Of course he proves Nigel wrong by opening his mouth again.

“The name’s Dean.”

“I’m not looking for friends, and if I was, I wouldn’t be trying to make friends with a fucking tourist.”

“Not a tourist,” Dean says. He licks his lips. Then lower, with an edge of heat that’s unmistakable, even through the pleasant, liquor-soaked haze Nigel’s got going, “Not trying to be your friend.”

“And I’m not a fucking faggot,” Nigel says.

A cocky, raised eyebrow. “Neither am I.” But the offer’s still unmistakably there.

He sighs, gestures to himself. “Nigel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nigel.”

* * *

They end up back in Dean’s motel room not thirty minutes later. He’s staying near the bar—small favors, hallelujah. The motel is a stone’s throw across a shitty, shared parking lot, and Nigel leaves his car where it’s standing. It’s not like he plans to stay long.

There’s not a lot of talking.

The door bangs shut behind them, and Dean rounds on him with those predator’s eyes, soft and out of place in a young man’s face. His skin is soft beneath Nigel’s hand when he brings it up to touch. He cups the angled curve of Dean’s jaw, palming the side of his face and tipping his head back for a deep, scorching kiss. It’s wet and filthy and tinged with booze.

Dean makes a low sound, appreciative in the back of his throat, and he lets Nigel manhandle him, lets Nigel back him up against the door. His back flattens against it with a hollow thud, and Nigel presses into him, gets a leg between Dean’s to give him something to grind against, knots his fingers into the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and pulls.

It tugs a deep, low whine from Dean, a sound that goes straight to his dick.

“Yeah, baby,” Nigel murmurs, running his fingers through the short, soft hair at the back of Dean’s head, scraping his fingernails along his scalp to watch him shiver. He gets another fistful of hair and pulls, liking the way Dean’s mouth falls open on a soundless, ragged breath. “You like that?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are huge and dark, green and murky in a way that reminds Nigel of the sea.

Dean’s mouth curves in another easy smile, oozy and slick, and he gets a hand between them. Plants it flat on Nigel’s chest and pushes him back, firm and insistent. Nigel grins, bright and feral, but he goes. He lets Dean shove him back toward the farthest bed, steering him around the other—the one with a half-open bookbag and a sprawl of books leaking out.

Nigel spares it only a second’s thought. The mattress connects with the back of his legs.

“C’mon,” Dean says, hands on Nigel’s shoulders. He pushes again, and his time Nigel catches his wrists, turns them as they go down so he’s sitting astride.

“Pushy. You always this fucking pushy?”

“No,” Dean says, flat tone that invites no conversation, no give to it, and that’s just fine.

Nigel hasn’t let go of his wrists. He twists them up above Dean’s head, pinning them on the yellowed, threadbare pillows, digging his thumbs in and making it hurt.

Dean bares his teeth and surges up. He’s strong, but so is Nigel. Nigel’s bigger, and he’s got better leverage. He admires the cords that stand out on Dean’s neck when he pulls, the lean, hard muscle that goes taut when he strains his wrists against Nigel’s grip.

Nigel doesn’t miss the way Dean goes hard under him, the hard bulge poking into his ass while he pins Dean’s hips with his thighs.

He grins, wolfish. “You getting off on this, darling?” He digs his thumbs in harder. “Is it the fighting or being held down?”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, but there’s something whining and desperate in it.

Nigel grinds down against his dick, eyes heavy-lidded, and a choked-off moan spills out of Dean’s mouth.

“Fuck.”

“That’s the idea, darling.”

He leans down and captures Dean’s mouth again. Dean surges up to meet him. He kisses like a goddamn pro, all slick, sliding tongue shoving its way into Nigel’s mouth. Nigel growls against his lips, and he feels that smile curve against them. Dean sinks his teeth into the soft skin of Nigel’s bottom lip and tugs. He bites harder when it gets a favorable reaction from Nigel, pressing hard enough to indent the skin and bring a swift sting of pain.

Nigel lets him go, through with playing. His prick is stiff and aching in his pants, and he wants friction, wants that soft, wet mouth wrapped around his dick, wants a tight, slick hole to slide into.

“Take these off for me, darling,” Nigel says, sliding his finger into the waistband of Dean’s jeans.

“Yeah. Yeah, fuck yeah.”

There’s no teasing to it, no _romance,_ thank fuck. That’s not what either of them are here for. The gun comes out of his pants first, left with the safety on on the bedside table. Nigel adds his own beside it, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

Nigel shrugs, and Dean lets it go. There’s only a few kinds of person who carry guns around, none of them the type to appreciate questions.

They shuck their clothes, all of them falling into a big, messy pile on the floor.

“Your brother coming back?” Nigel asks when he’s got his hands back on Dean’s skin. More of it this time, hot and smooth and satisfying under his fingertips. He drags his hands across curved ribs, taut muscle, down to the stiff cock between Dean’s legs. Christ, he’s pretty, almost pretty like a girl.

Dean hisses when Nigel wraps a hand around him and gives him a squeeze. He drops his head to Nigel’s shoulder, swearing and panting. “Not for a while.”

Nigel nods. That’s all he needs to hear. He pushes Dean down onto the bed, laying him out.

Dean nips and sucks at Nigel’s collarbone, his neck, his throat. He puts his mouth anywhere he can reach, and it feels fucking amazing. Nigel tips his head back, doesn’t tell Dean to stop when the biting gets more frantic, edging into the realm of actual pain, and that’s going to leave a mark tomorrow.

It’s hard to care when Dean palms Nigel’s dick, covering it with his hand and pumping him just right, his callused thumb rubbing over the head in a way that’s just this side of too sensitive. It makes Nigel’s toes curl, makes him sigh and groan and pull the other man closer, one hand biting into the meat of his ass.

It’s rough and dry, slicked only by the spit on their licked palms, and it’s too fucking good and over too soon.

Nigel’s considering whether he should stick around, what the odds are on round two when he realizes the body below him is shaking. Not shaking a lot—none of this heaving chest and quivering lip shit—but wracked by fine tremors all the same.

He’s not a fucking asshole, whatever Gabi thinks.

“Hey, you okay?”

Dean nods. Gulps down air.

“I’m gonna. I need to—you wanna get out of here?” He looks at Nigel with too-bright eyes, feverish and lit from within from some unholy fever, and Nigel recognizes it, he does. It’s a look he’s seen on junkies, itching and squirming for their next fix.

Junkies are alright, good for business, not a fucking problem—not his problem anyway—but Nigel’s short on sympathy for them. The kind that are fucked up on the shit he sells, and the ones that are fucked on whatever’s got this kid by the balls. He’s not looking to buy trouble. He doesn’t have a savior complex. 

Or maybe he does. Maybe it just takes the right kind of face, angelic and haunted, and something in Nigel wants to go all Superman. Wants it to be the kind of problem he can punch in the face, but he eyes the man in front of him—rangy, lean muscles; gun on the table and something sharp and alert in his eyes, even under all the booze—and he doesn’t think Dean’s ever met a problem he couldn’t punch himself.

He’s got just enough of a savior complex to say, “Yeah, okay,” despite all his better judgment. All the ways this is not what he was looking for, not his fucking problem.

They shove their clothes back on and shuffle across the dim parking lot into Nigel’s car, still parked outside the bar. Nigel’s blitzed but not too far gone to drive. He pulls out and burns rubber out of the parking lot.

He rolls the windows down. It’s a nice night, and the air is cool after the sauna of the dinky motel room. The sun’s long gone. Everything is tinted purple and blue by twilight. Streetlights and neon signs light the streets, streaking Dean’s face with flashes of color as they drive. He sits in his seat but leans his head out the window, turning his face to catch the wind.

Nigel sneaks glances at him, eyes slitted, lips parted. He wonders what it tastes like, running like that. Wonders if it tastes like freedom.

* * *

He takes Dean back to his apartment. It’s very obviously a bachelor pad. Gabi doesn’t live here. Hasn’t lived here in months, not since she took up with that American cocksucker. He misses the little lively touches she brought to the place, nothing quite like a woman’s touch. There are no fruity bottles of shampoo in the shower, no lotion that smells of strawberries and champagne. The little candles that she loved to burn are gone, the teetering, strappy shoes by the door, the closet full of leather jackets and short dresses that smelled like her skin.

If Dean thinks anything of it—a married man living in a home that’s obviously made only for him—he doesn’t say it.

Nigel clicks on the light in the living room and sits himself on the couch, leaning back, legs sprawled. The couch is black leather, handsome and smelling ever so faintly of cigarettes. He wants to see Dean spread over it.

Dean takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. He seems to sag toward the earth, weighted down and heavy, as if the jacket was providing some kind of integral structural support. Most people look lighter when they strip off their clothes, freer, a little embarrassed, maybe—but not this one. There’s no self-consciousness in him. He just looks older in the harsh glow of the living room lamp, the lines bracketing his downturned mouth hard and severe.

Nigel frowns. He reaches up to angle the lamp’s head away at the wall so the space is bathed in a soft, diffuse glow. Better.

“C’mere, darling,” Nigel says, holding out a hand.

Dean hesitates, scared as a rabbit. For a second, Nigel thinks he might actually bolt, off like a shot into the night and that’ll be the end of that; he looks that scared. It’s one part fascinating. Nigel doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man look like that who didn’t have a gun drawn on him.

Dean doesn’t run. He starts moving again instead, shuffles forward, sneakered feet quiet on the wooden floor. His whole body seems to sigh as he takes the invitation, folding himself into Nigel’s body, in the space made for him between Nigel’s open legs.

“That’s it, baby, come on,” Nigel says, tugging him down onto the couch.

“Not your baby,” Dean says, gruff.

“Gotta be someone’s baby, don’t you?” Nigel folds his arms around Dean, around the stiffness and wary, wolf-eyed hesitation. “Doesn’t look like anyone else is taking care of you, all twitchy and haunted and shit. If you’re not anyone’s baby, you might as well be mine.”

Dean laughs, watery and wet but dry-eyed. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, but he doesn’t pull away.

Nigel takes it—seems as good an invitation as he’s gonna get. He maneuvers them so they’re laying flat on the couch. It’s a tight squeeze—neither of them are small men—but they manage to fit, and the closeness feels good, even to him. It feels good to have someone pressed up against him, heart thumping beneath his hands, body solid and warm against his.

He’d expected to screw—still hoping they might—but this is nice for now. Nicer than he thought it could be.

They lie there in the dim quiet for a while, not talking, barely moving. Every so often Dean shivers against him, and Nigel presses him closer. He doesn’t ask what’s the matter. He doesn’t suppose it’s any of his business.

He’s not terribly surprised when Dean talks anyway, eventually. It was like this with Gabi too, not that he was very good at the whole shutting up and listening thing. He really was a shit husband.

There’s no warning when Dean starts in on it, no shuddering tears, no Hallmark movie crap, just a torrent of words. Once the seal’s cracked, they don’t stop coming.

“He’s just so fucking—he’s _there,_ you know? He’s always there. Fuckin’. Watching me. Judging me, and. And I know I fucked up? I know it’s fucked up. This. It. His girlfriend died. He’s smart, you know. Real smart. He could’ve been anything, but he’s—” Dean shakes his head.

None of this makes a lick of sense to Nigel. “This about your brother?”

There’s something dark in Dean’s laugh, dark and resigned and he drags a hand over his face. “Fuck it, nevermind.” He twists in Nigel’s hold, turns to look him blearily in the eyes. “You got anything to drink?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Now that’s something he can do something about.

He sits up slowly, dislodging Dean from his perch on the couch, hugging him close for a second more so he doesn’t go sprawling to the floor when Nigel gets up. There’s a knee to the small of a back, a foot digging into a tender place on his shin. They get up without a hell of a lot of grace, which is only to be expected considering how drunk they both are.

Nigel opens the fridge and stares into its vacant depths, the bright, bare bulb burning into his retinas. A few brown bottles of beer wait, perched on the back shelf and already starting to perspire.

He closes the fridge and opens the freezer.

“Vodka alright?” he calls from the kitchen.

“Fine,” a muffled voice calls back.

He grabs the chilled bottle around the neck and hooks his fingers into two squat glass tumblers.

Dean is still lying on the couch when he comes back, staring idly at the ceiling and breathing the labored breath of the truly fucked up. He sits up when he hears Nigel’s approach.

Nigel pours for them, two fingers of vodka each. It tastes like nothing going down. He doesn’t buy the cheap shit, and it’s cold for a reason.

Dean seems surprised as he sips it, like he wasn’t expecting anything to go down easy here tonight.

“It’s good,” he says.

Nigel snorts. “What kind of cheap gutter shit have you been drinking?”

“Gutter shit,” Dean says with a grin.

They sit on the floor, the coffee table coming up to their chests. Right now, the couch seems like more trouble than it’s worth. Their cups are both empty, and Nigel pours for them again. They clink the rims of their glasses together and make it last this time. Nigel doesn’t ask about whatever’s got Dean by the throat.

The vodka does its work on them both. He feels loose-limbed and easy, lets his head tilt back and rest against the couch cushion.

“What’s the story with you and your wife?”

“None of your business,” Nigel says, but there’s no heat in it.

Dean shrugs a single shoulder. “Whatever, man. I figured we were unburdening ourselves. If you wanted to, you know, unburden yourself, go for it.” He sets his glass down on the table and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Doesn’t bother me either way.”

Nigel grunts. There’s a long moment where he doesn’t say anything, just on principle—but fuck it, if he’s gonna talk to anyone, it might as well be a stranger with a pretty face.

“Not much to tell. She ran off with someone else. Wants a divorce.” He shrugs and knocks back the rest of his drink, pours himself another. “Moved into another apartment, sneaky-like when I wasn’t there. I stayed here.”

Dean eyes him openly. “Did you deserve it?”

“What, her running off with a fucking cocksucker or her leaving without even bothering to mention it to me?”

“Either. Both. In my experience, people don’t tend to run unless they’re out of other options.”

“Is that why your brother left?”

Dean laughs like rusty nails. He lifts his glass in a mocking salute. They don’t talk for a while after that.

“We’re fucking, you know,” Dean says. He says it mean, says it flat. “In case you hadn’t, you know, figured it out.” He scrubs his hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fuck.”

“You and your brother?”

“Shut up.”

Nigel very fucking cordially doesn’t mention that Dean’s the one who brought it up in the first place. Christ. He’s never been very good at _tact,_ or whatever the fuck, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Wow, that’s twisted. I thought I was fucked up. That’s _really_ fucked up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean says, voice dripping acid.

“I didn’t say I mind.”

“Didn’t ask your fucking opinion.”

Nigel snorts. “Must’ve wanted my fucking opinion or you wouldn’t have brought it up. The fuck’s the matter with you, walking around telling people shit like that. Gonna get yourself killed.”

“I’d like to see someone try.”

He says it so matter-of-fact that Nigel thinks he’d also like to see that.

He sighs and starts again. “Look, I’m not some kinda fucking priest here to absolve you of wanting to put it to your brother.”

Dean makes a face at the phrasing, and Nigel snorts. It’s a funny line to draw, a weird place to plant the flag of your moral compunctions, but he doesn’t suppose he’s immune to that either. He’s drawn a few arbitrary lines himself, chalked them out around the skeletons in his closet, the body count in his head.

He shakes his head. “It’s weird, but it’s none of my fucking business. Way I see it, it’s nobody’s business but yours. You and—” He looks at Dean for the name he already forgot.

“Sam.”

Nigel grunts. “As long as it’s right between the two of you, what’s it matter to everyone else? Tell the rest of the world to go screw itself.”

Dean laughs—rusty, like his vocal chords aren’t used to making that sound—but warm all the same. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

“You shouldn’t,” Nigel says, full of himself and satisfied. Pleased to have worked out a problem for a pretty face. “You gonna stick around for a while?” he asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Dean’s already leaning toward the door, eyeing his coat, surreptitiously patting his pockets and checking his piece.

He scratches the back of his head. “Nah. We’re heading out bright ‘n’ early. I should probably get back before Sam calls out Search and Rescue.”

Nigel nods. He walks Dean to the door.

They don’t kiss each other goodbye.

He finishes his drink and takes the cups to the sink. You meet the weirdest fucking people in the States.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


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